The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent

Haste Is Needful In A Desperate Case.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

O Hell! To Choose Love With Another's Eye.

But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No Blot? Thou Mayst Be False, And Yet I Know It Not.

To Be Slow In Words Is A Woman's Only Virtue.